Veritas
by ConstantComment
Summary: 6th Year AU: Liquid honesty. Strongest truth potion known to Wizardkind. Invented in 1266 by Duther the Doubtful. Fiercely controlled by the Ministry. Painstakingly brewed over a period of one-and-a-half moon cycles. Today's assignment in NEWT Potions.


**Rating:** NC-17  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> All characters herein are the property of the goddess J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.  
><strong>Warning(s):<strong> Explicit sex between two characters who are underage but of the age of consent.  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Dearest kitty_fic, here is the response to your prompt. We all know it took much too long, but I hope that you enjoy it all the more for the extra several thousand words I ended up writing. I fail so hard at 100-900 word ficlets. This story takes place immediately after the poisoning incident on Ron's birthday and very clearly veers off from canon as the story progresses. I would LOVE to hear feedback on this story. Constructive crit is very much welcome, but if you don't feel like doing that, leave me your snuggles and glomps! 3

**Veritas**

Veritaserum. Liquid honesty. Strongest truth potion known to Wizardkind. Invented in 1266 by Duther the Doubtful. Fiercely controlled by the Ministry. Painstakingly brewed over a period of one-and-a-half moon cycles.

Veritaserum. The Advanced Potions assignment in preparation for N.E.W.T.s today, March 3, 1997.

And in between plucking thyme from the pots by the windowsill, dropping Dead Sea salt into the unction of peony pollen and Centaur blood (willingly given, which _for Merlin's sake_ had to be one of the most expensive ingredients on the market these days next to unicorn hair), and avoiding thoughts of the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things several floors above but never far enough away, Draco Malfoy silently thanked the appropriate deity for allowing him to attempt the most challenging Advanced Potions class _alone_. Considering he hadn't much time that wasn't focused on goals set by the Dark Lord, Draco was pleased he could do something straightforward—something he enjoyed—without someone else to muck it up for him.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that Luck would drop Harry Potter in Draco's metaphorical lap just when he was gearing up for a tiny (_well deserved_) break in the year he was quickly recognizing as the worst of his life.

"Ron's out sick," Potter grumbled by way of explanation of his lateness and resulting placement at Draco's side, head ducked and jaw clenched with fury as Slughorn patted him on the shoulder and moved on to the front of the already cloudy classroom.

Draco's heart stuttered frantically but he did not miss a beat when Potter dropped his bag of books and slammed his ratty textbook on the table, causing a mortar to wobble, the paired pestle rolling along the table until it rested against Draco's cutting board.

"For once," Draco said, "I am sorry to hear that."

If Potter could glare any harder his eyes would probably pop out of his scarred head. Draco made sure he knew that too.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," he spat, and then when he was sure Draco would not reply he groaned silently, leaning on the table and folding his arms, the picture of apathy with a side plate of teen angst.

Draco slid his gaze back to the herbs he was mincing, rechecking the instructions in his own text and pretending he was alone. He looked around and saw that most of the other students were behind him in the instructions, some having diverged completely from the desired results already. Draco redoubled his efforts. If he was going to be better this time, he was going to be _much_ better.

"This week couldn't get any worse," Potter muttered eventually.

Draco grunted, as the week surely could in his experience considering it was only Wednesday, gathering the thyme with his gloved hands and depositing it into the mortar.

"I quite fancy a drink of _oak matured mead_, don't you Malfoy?" Potter said pointedly as he leaned into Draco's space, face contorted in something very much like a sneer. "Get myself nice and drunk."

Draco's hands started shaking so he took a deep breath and refocused on the next step: pickled dove's eyes – 8 ½, add all after serum's aura has faded to a bruised peach. He readjusted his dragon hide gloves with care and opened the jar.

Draco dropped his knife, but did not respond, swallowing the guilt and panic that bubbled up. Was this because of Weasley? How had he gotten hold of the mead? He knew Slughorn hadn't given it to Dumbledore, but how Potter knew…

Grimacing, he scooped the bird organs out of the jar, preparing to cut one delicate eye in half before Potter hissed:

"_Maybe_ keep a bezoar around in case someone's tried to kill me!"

Potter must have been incredibly angry, to confront him like this instead of following him around as per usual. Perhaps almost losing one's best friend would change things a little. Draco didn't know by experience.

Potter growled incoherently and turned away when he was sure of Draco's non-response, ruffling open the pages of his textbook, wondering aloud what potion Draco was "so _diligently_ working on."

Draco rasped, "Veritaserum," just as Slughorn shuffled up to the table again, smiling falsely at—both of them?

"Potter, m'boy," he greeted, his smile too wide. "Playing teacher today? Mister Malfoy, don't let him be too hard on you!"

"Oh, I won't, Professor," Draco said, smiling back.

"Veritaserum." Potter was staring dumbly at the side of Draco's head. "Doesn't that take a full moon cycle to mature?"

Draco wondered incredulously how Potter knew that. Making a face, Draco dropped the dove eyes into the concoction, which had just now emitted the first pulse of an aura—

"Yes, Mister Potter. I have let each cauldron mature for one moon cycle in order for your class to see the finished product, after the last thirty-four steps have been conducted by—in your case—young Draco, here."

Draco held back a sigh.

"How will you know if it's effective, Professor?" Potter asked.

"Why, we'll test it of course! I will select at random—"

"I don't want to drink anything Malfoy's made," Potter said firmly.

Draco swallowed and looked down at his hands stirring the potion when Slughorn blinked between the both of them.

"…Sir," Potter added.

Slughorn chortled oddly. "Oh, now, Mister Potter. You are a potions star," the wizard said, "but we mustn't get too big-headed about it!"

Potter said nothing.

"Very well," Slughorn ceded. Then, glancing over at Draco, he added, "If that is acceptable… Mister Malfoy?"

Draco clenched a fist around the whisk in his cauldron. "Of course, Professor Slughorn," he choked out.

The absolute _fool_ bumbled away to comment blithely on the Mudblood's work as Draco counted thirteen anti-clockwise stirs.

"Which step are we on?" Potter finally muttered while frowning at Granger, who was still choosing to ignore him.

"_I_ have six more steps to go."

"Next is Cornish Pixie dust?"

Draco glanced at the dark, spidery scribbles in the margins of Potter's textbook—this oaf wasn't _actually_ a potions prodigy, was he? That chicken scratch was probably all half-arsed poetry or something. _Not_ notes on potions.

"I have eight more stirs to go until then," Draco said.

"Add one clockwise turn at the end—adds efficacy."

"Listen, Scarhead," Draco spat, fighting the urge to slosh the potion about with his whisk, "the instructions say otherwise. Just because you're suddenly everyone's favourite including the Potions master doesn't mean I'm buying into your _genius_."

"Just do it, Malfoy." Potter folded his arms, forearms dusted with dark hair, as his shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. "It's not like it'll be the end of your world if this potion doesn't work as well as it should."

Draco watched him watch Draco. Then, Potter cocked a stupid eyebrow, grabbing at his chapped lips with his equally stupid teeth, and Draco added a clockwise turn. Like an afterthought.

_Like_ without _a thought_, Draco grumbled miserably to himself, and watched as Potter dumped the contents of the measuring spoon into the middle of the still spinning serum.

The potion shone mockingly at Draco, who knew at once that indeed the potion was more potent.

He could see a devilish smirk twitching at the corner of Potter's mouth as Draco began to prepare the next ingredients in the two minutes they had before the next step.

And, despite himself, Draco had listened to every suggestion Potter had—the want for approval and recognition somehow overweighing the need to keep his darkest secrets—until they were peering into a cauldron of what looked like purest, stillest water, Potter thumbing through his textbook smugly while Draco took off his gloves, forcing himself to breath calmly.

Draco's heart galloped when Slughorn announced that it was now time to test each cauldron.

"You must try to resist answering truthfully!" Slughorn said, passing out tiny salt spoons made of glass. "This amount will allow your partner to ask three questions of you before the effect wears off. _Do_ try to ask non-invasive questions limited to the answers 'yes' or 'no.'"

Draco took his spoon and stared at it while Professor Slughorn waxed sycophantic about Potter's potions skills. It was only when Slughorn gripped him on the shoulder that Draco looked up into the eyes of a vaguely uncomfortable-looking Gryffindor.

"Quite sure you don't want to test out the fruits of your labour, Potter?" Draco asked shakily.

That disconcerted look faded quickly. "Positive," Potter said shortly, biting again at his lips.

Draco dipped the little spoon into the potion and brought what he'd gathered to his lips. He knew the stuff had kicked in as soon as it hit his tongue because otherwise he'd be tamping down bubbling dread in the pit of his stomach. In place of the dread had settled a niggling calm, like boredom. He rolled his shoulders.

"Feeling it yet, Malfoy?"

The niggling feeling churned and morphed into a prod behind his eyes, getting steadily worse the longer he struggled not to answer. As soon as the prodding turned into outright nausea, Draco shuddered out a quiet, "Yes."

Potter realized his mistake immediately. He'd wasted one of three questions already. He ran a hand through his hair.

They both jumped when a pair toward the front of the classroom shrieked in laughter, having realized that their potion made the dosed witch answer backwards.

Potter swore under his breath, then muttered, "_Muffliato_," as he whipped his wand through the air and holstered it in one blink.

Then, Potter began pacing.

"I knew from the start that you were up to something. You don't bother with anything else anymore. And then the mead, and you disappearing off the map, and you hanging out with all those random girls…"

Draco didn't know exactly which angle Potter was coming from, but even through the haze of the serum he could feel how close Potter was circling to the truth. He only had to ask. He could ask so many questions. All of them would be devastating.

Draco rubbed at his face, the bored feeling making him antsy, on the verge of panic, heart speeding without any questions to fulfil the potion's purpose.

"Stop, stop moving—I'm going to—" Draco sucked in a gulp of air. "Oh, Merlin…"

Potter was on him so fast—crowding him against the counter, craning up into Draco's face—that Draco momentarily forgot to breath. The frustration was vibrating off of Potter. You could literally feel the angry magic in the air. Draco's hands scrambled for purchase against the sleek wood of the table, knocking the jar of pickled dove eyes over and spilling the contents.

"You—you have to ask me something. Potter, please!" Draco gasped, eyes darting away and back again. "I'll be sick."

"Do you want to get out of the mess you're in, Draco?" Potter asked, voice quiet and controlled.

The question was so unexpected that the answer startled out of him, ripped from his throat on a sob.

"_Yes_."

It was the right answer, for any version of the question Potter had asked, and Draco experienced a bit of clarity followed by a rush of vertigo, like breathing in too-thin air, and collapsed against Potter's chest.

He didn't realize tears were leaking from his eyes until he felt the sodden mess of Potter's button-down.

"Circe…" Draco whispered, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his robe.

Potter was close, looking down at him, as Draco was rather dramatically letting him hold all of his weight. Potter's lips were an abused red, and his eyes greener than ever. Draco felt Potter's hands fist tighter in the fabric of his robes, two knots against his shoulder blades.

As Potter leaned down, his face tilted and eyes hooded, Draco reached up to trace a finger over Potter's collarbone. Draco's stomach wound tight, brow furrowing, wanting, leaning up and then—

"D'you fancy me, Malfoy?" Potter husked out, breath huffing in the millimetre of space between their lips.

Draco closed his eyes, the uneasy feeling drowning out the desire coiled deep in his belly. "Yes," he said as the prodding-behind-the-eyes began again.

Potter's absence was almost stronger than his presence.

Draco scrubbed at his face before turning and salvaging what he could of the wrecked ingredients then put a Stasis charm over the surface of the Veritaserum. Potter removed whatever spell it was that he'd cast and reported what he supposed was a success to Professor Slughorn. Draco then drifted out of the classroom, dragging his book bag like it weighed a tonne, the effect of the potion fading out of existence as he reached the door.

Everyone in the class had apparently been oblivious to what had transpired at his and Potter's counter. They were all chatting happily or blushing furiously from the secrets they'd divulged, filing out behind him in one great cluster. Draco just felt empty.

"Ow, fuck!"

And now Draco felt pain. Pain at the back of his skull where someone had grabbed him from the hallway and slammed him against a stone wall in a nook near the stairwell. He had only time to spot two bright green eyes behind round glasses before he was being shoved up against the wall again, what felt like a blanket falling over him, and lips pressing insistently against his own. Draco gasped against those lips, and let an equally insistent tongue lick into his mouth.

Potter swallowed Draco's undignified moan and brought his hands up to cradle the back of Draco's skull, mussing the neat hair with his fingers. There was a thigh between Draco's legs, pressing up against his cock and wringing hurt sounds from his throat.

"Fu—" Draco whimpered, wrapping his arms around Potter's shoulders and grabbing at his clothes.

Potter's hands were all over, flitting, grabbing, scratching across Draco's arms and shoulders and neck as his lips were fixed, suckling at Draco's Adam's apple like a man starved. He'd have an angry mark to show for it, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Potter, Potter, Potter," he found himself chanting under his breath instead of pushing the boy away.

"Mnh," replied the boy, grasping Draco's jaw and forcing his tongue back into Draco's waiting mouth.

Draco was harder than ever, finally giving in and thrusting against Potter who gasped happily, his cock hot and dripping in his pants. Draco reached down and rubbed a palm against the wet spot on Potter's denims, unzipping the fly when Potter asked brokenly for him to touch.

"Yes," Draco said.

"You," Potter said—of course he'd be this incoherent and yet command every bit of Draco's obedience—and Draco unbuttoned his own trousers. His cock twitched, leaking precome when Potter grabbed for it, wrapping his fingers tightly around the shaft and rubbing his palm against the head. Draco blanked out of a moment or so, feeling tingly and warm as Potter worked him up. After too long a moment Potter nudged Draco's chin with his nose and whined impatiently, reminding Draco he wasn't being quite fair. Draco searched out Potter's lips and lifted a hand to them, waiting only a second before Potter understood and licked his palm, making sure to suck at the tips of Draco's fingers before reaching for Draco's mouth instead. His unoccupied hand slipped up Draco's shirt and smoothed across his stomach, pushing the fabric up until his palm rested against Draco's heart.

Draco gripped his slick hand around Potter's cock on a low whine, picking up the pace to match Potter's hand on his own cock. The feeling was building up from his spine, white hot and making his toes and thighs and arsehole twitch with want.

"Potter," Draco whimpered, hand quick on Potter's cock, feeling the beginning of Potter's orgasm in the rolling of his hips.

"Oh, God—" Potter choked out, going stiff as a board as he painted Draco's fingers white.

Draco's orgasm ripped from him, startling both of them as it coated both their hands and a bit of their stomachs.

It was quiet save for their gasps.

When he felt like he could breath properly again, Draco fished out his wand and Vanished their mess, head knocking back against the wall to look at the ceiling through the invisible fabric that rested against his forehead.

"I can get you out, Draco," Potter said, hushed.

"What?" Draco asked quietly, pulling his pants back up over his hips while contemplating a crack in the vaulting above them, buttoning his trousers with a snap of his fingers.

"Whatever you've gotten yourself into, I can get you out." Potter leaned in, fiddling with Draco's collar.

Draco's stomach knotted up. "You can't," he said.

"Whatever he's making you do…"

"He'll kill them."

Potter removed his hand from under Draco's shirt, lingering only a little before tucking himself in and zipping himself up. He backed away slowly, leaving Draco feeling simultaneously lighter and heavier, taking away the lingering high of orgasm. An orgasm that Potter had given him just a moment ago. The thought wasn't horrid enough to keep his stomach from clenching with want, cock taking a fuzzy, sex-hurt interest. He glanced at Potter, watching him lick his puffy chapped lips as he watched Draco right back. He wondered if the same thoughts were floating through Potter's head. He wondered if Potter would revisit the last few minutes in his bed tonight. Draco took a breath and refocused on the conversation.

"He will kill them, Potter," he said again.

"Look, Draco…" He ran his fingers through his hair and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Meet with Dumbledore—"

"Potter."

"Meet with me and Dumbledore and we'll figure it out."

"Fuck. That is not how things work! You cannot just fix every problem—"

"I can," the boy said determinedly.

Draco rolled his eyes.

"I can if it means that you will stop trying to kill for a man who is _not_ likely to keep his promises." Potter glanced out into the corridor for a moment. "If you want to save your parents' lives, you can do that without whatever deal you made."

"You have no idea…" Draco murmured, shaking his head.

"I promise you have options."

Draco stared hard over Potter's shoulder.

"Please, Draco," Potter said after several quiet moments.

"Stop calling me that."

"What?"

"Stop calling me Draco—it's weird."

Potter chuckled, pressing his shoulders into the wall. "Does it make your dick twitch?" he joked.

"It's distracting," Draco conceded, leaning down and kissing him quickly before shoving him away and tossing the cloak at him. "Have Dumbledore summon me for detention or something. I can't just trot on up to the Headmaster's office of my own volition."

"Yeah. Yeah, good idea."

"That's right; it is a good idea."

"Oh, stuff it Malfoy," Potter said, wrapping the shimmery fabric up and stuffing it into a pocket in his robes.

Draco smirked, even though Potter's grin made his heart beat like a rabbit's. "Owl me."

"Burn it after reading it," Potter replied.

"Of course. I'm not going to keep your scribbles under my pillow; don't worry."

"I'm not worrying!"

Draco peeked around the corner and, when he saw no one in the hall, looked back over his shoulder. "I'm not going to apologize for what I did," he said.

Potter's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

"I did it for my family, Potter." Draco looked down at his boots. "You understand that, don't you?"

Draco stepped out into the hallway, ears buzzing strangely for a moment. He frowned when Potter's response was garbled and hard to understand.

Potter followed him into the corridor and spoke again, quietly. "I'm not sorry I used the Veritaserum like I did." He stroked his wand through the air and slipped it back up his sleeve, just like earlier.

"It was rather Slytherin of you, actually," Draco admitted, redirecting their attention away from his bruised pride—his stinging embarrassment that had the buzz kill of a violent train wreck. "Too blatantly manipulative, but passable."

"I made sure no one would notice."

"That sounds like an apology to me," Draco said, unconsciously brushing his fingers over a red cheek.

Potter shrugged. "It's a rationalization, just like yours."

"You think you're so clever."

Potter eyed Draco, shoving his hands into his pockets, too casual. "Clever enough," he replied.

Draco snorted.

Potter quirked his eyebrows and said, "We weren't too bad together, just now."

Draco looked at Potter. At his green eyes behind the ridiculous round glasses. At his crumpled robe and trousers and hair. At his determined demeanour and hopeful expression.

"I'm going to go now," Draco said finally.

"Yeah," Potter laughed nervously. "See you around, then."

Draco walked away, letting just a little bit of Potter's hope to catch and bury itself deep in his chest.

**Fin**


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